


Rank Hath its Privileges

by ausmac



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7979521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caldwell's idea of discipline is very interesting</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rank Hath its Privileges

"Just shows you," Jake Wilson said, shifting the completely non-regulation piece of gum from one side of his mouth to the other, "that rank ain't no guarantee of protection in this man's air force." 

His workmate, Garcia, grunted.  "Whatever.  Did I ask for a diameter gauge or did I imagine it?"  

Jake handed the gauge over and continued to watch the officer's approach.  Of all the officers of his acquaintance - although Colonel John Sheppard couldn't really be called an acquaintance, since they'd never shared more than a salute or a nod - Sheppard was undoubtedly the least officer-looking.  His hair always had that crazed left-over-from-the-80s look, he sauntered, slouched and grinned way too much for anyone over the rank of junior lefty - and he bent rules in a way guaranteed to get up the nose of certain very rules-sticklerish commanding Colonels.  Jake gave the polite nod he was permitted to use aboard ship when his hands were full of technical equipment and noted the Colonel hardly saw him.  Not surprising, really. 

The Colonel stopped at the door a few feet down the way and slapped his hand on the buzzer.  There was a muffled noise and the door opened. 

"You wanted to see me, Caldwell?" 

_Oh, now, that is NOT the tone to use…_ The technical sergeant didn't need to wait long for the expected snarled response. 

"That's Colonel Caldwell, and what the HELL do you think you were doing, putting my ship at risk AGAIN for another moronic scheme without running it past me first.  Next time --" 

"Don't give me that!" Sheppard said as he stepped inside the Colonel's office, "you know you'll always come after me, even if it's just to kick my ---"  and the door hissed shut. 

Jake gave a satisfied sigh.  There was still some entertainment to be had in Air Force.  But he wouldn't have liked to be in Sheppard's position right then… _For the ass kicking we are about to receive, may we be truly thankful…_.

 

 

Caldwell was looming again.  How he managed it while sitting down, John didn’t know. It was a skill, or possibly a method learned in a class he'd skipped at the Academy.  Looming 101, and Caldwell had it down pat.  Glaring too.  He was heavy duty, Full Colonel, glare-er. 

But the whole looming-while-sitting-down thing was also a psych technique - retaining his seat like a base commander putting the heavy on some poor skiff who'd come back late from leave and stood shuffling in front of his desk.  John knew those sort of mind games real well.  So he didn't shuffle.  He slouched his way to the desk, planted his butt on one corner, and pushed a neatly stacked bunch of report folders onto the floor. 

Tiny little sparks of fire lit up the older man's blue eyes.  It had to hurt grinding your jaws together that hard, John thought, watching the emotions flicker across the granite-jawed face. 

He grinned. "Now look, I know I should have run it past you first, but we had last minute intel and it was go then or not go at all, and we did end up with a brand new ZPM which has got McKay happy as a pig in mud and waffling about even maybe being able to lift the city and well --" he lifted both shoulders into a shrug --"there you go." 

He'd never baited a bull, but John rather thought it was a bit like that, like poking something pointy into the tender spot on some big, violent animal to see if it would react.  And Caldwell, well he was just naturally predisposed to jerk at whatever little pointy things John did. 

Finally, Caldwell stood.  Slowly, unfolding himself to his full, dominating height, never taking his eyes off John's, he stalked around the desk.  John watched with intense fascination as one big hand reached out, grabbed a handful of jacked, reefed him to his feet and slammed him backwards against the wall.  

John's head hit the wall with a dull thump.  "Oww!  Hurt!" 

"Good!"  Caldwell snarled, moving well inside John's strike space, pressing closer until their bodies were millimeters apart.  "I hope it hurts.  You deserve to hurt for doing that.  Putting my ship at risk, my people.  Mine." 

John raised a hand and rubbed the back of his head; blue eyes followed his every move.  "There has to be something in the Regs about beating up another Colonel.  I know I skip-read but I'm sure I saw something there…" 

"Oh, just shut the fuck up!" the Colonel said and crossed the few millimeters and silenced John with his mouth. 

John knew for a fact that he was actually half an inch taller than Caldwell - he'd checked out the man's service info once, with McKay's help - yet somehow Caldwell always managed to seem bigger.  It had to be his mental approach, the stonewall feeling of strength, of something immovable.  And whenever he did what he was doing, John always felt somehow smaller, even a little weaker.  And he liked it.  But only with this man.  _God alone knows why, but I do…_

Caldwell ground against him, groin to groin, chest to chest, and his mouth was all dominance, hot and angry, tasting of coffee and unspent anger.  John closed his eyes and let himself just feel.  No thinking required, just the sensation of someone holding him, someone surrounding him, enfolding him.  

When Caldwell moved back for breath, John whispered, "Door?  Locked?  Security cams?" 

"Do you think I'm a fool? " 

"Yes."  He was like that with Caldwell, when they did this, suddenly quiet, serious.  "Yes, I think we both are.  Lunatics." 

"Certainly since my life became infected with you."  Caldwell returned to his mouth, kissing him deeply, sucking out his breath,  connecting to him in a way no-one else had ever manage.  "You're worse than the Wraith, a life-sucking force."  Caldwell pulled up John's t-shirt and slid his hands beneath, their heat a balm on John's back.  John's own hands hung limply; they would have something to do later but right then everything was Caldwell. 

Caldwell's mouth moved down to his throat, tongue moving over his skin, as those hands moved to strip him.  Jacket, shirt, and then the hands were back, running over his back, waist, around to the front and down to rest over the tight, hot place between his legs from behind and in front.  And then they squeezed, heavy and painful and blissful until he groaned and Caldwell covered his mouth again. 

He didn't hurry, there was no frenzied fumbling.  Caldwell treated sex the way he did everything: methodical, purposeful.  He might have been at home, in the security of his own place rather than just a few feet away from potential, disastrous, discovery.  Maybe that was his drug of choice, John didn't know.  He'd never been able to read too much of this man.  The fact that they were lovers are all was a puzzle.  Their coming together had been a sort of cosmic big bang, like breaching the event horizon of a black hole.  One minute you were on the outside and safe, the next you were over the edge and being dragged down by an irresistible energy.  Even if he could go back, he couldn't.  Which made sense on a number of disturbing levels. 

At passionate moments, Caldwell's deep voice dropped even lower, became like slow velvet.  _God help me if he ever told me to hand over Atlantis in that voice…_

Caldwell had said something, that mesmeric voice commanding him down, anger still vibrating through him.  At quiet times, John would wonder why it was that anger ignited them both to that place where they were intimate.  It was an odd trigger and there had to be name for it, but he'd never tried to find a label.  It was just what it was.  He shouldn't even be thinking about causes and such stuff, not when he was on his knees, more or less naked, about to take Caldwell's cock into his mouth. 

He smiled, the cock bobbed in front of his face, and he laughed.  "Hungry bugger," he muttered, "just like your boss, all big and angry and hard.  Sure, you want me now, but will you respect me in the morning?" 

"Respect," spoke the Tones of Velvet, "is earned." 

Ah well, John thought, as edged forward and took Caldwell into his mouth, better get on with earning it then. 

He knew how good it felt, from the times Caldwell did it to him, how fabulous the pressure and the tongue were, how you felt it all the way down to the soles of your feet.  But it was good in other ways too, satisfying.  To know that he was doing this to Colonel Steven Caldwell, US Air Force, the personification of all that was Regulation, who trusted his career and life to John Sheppard.  Trust on that level was something John had rarely been given in his life.  Elizabeth, McKay, the others of his team, they trusted him.  And Steven Caldwell.  Who'da thought? 

With the knowledge of a man who knew when orgasm wasn't all that far, John pulled back and looked up, to see Caldwell watching him.  The eyes were hooded, the face a little flushed, and was he breathing a bit faster?  Otherwise, hardly any response to being the recipient of an excellent blow job by the best mouth in two galaxies.  He smiled again, crookedly, knowing what it did to Caldwell.  It was another one of those bull-baiting things. 

Caldwell hissed, reached down, grabbed John by the upper arms and pulled him upright, kicking the chair aside so that it flew against the wall.  John swiveled, using a wrestling move he'd learned from Ronan to twist himself under and up so that Caldwell was suddenly unbalanced and then he was the one laying face down across the desk, with folders and comp units and pens and the little frame picture of someone being scattered across the room.  Caldwell's head the desk with a solid whack and he equally suddenly went limp. 

John froze; fear doused arousal and he pulled back, dragging the Colonel around.  There was a flash of movement, a blink and a feral snarl and the sneaky bastard had turned him over and flattened across the desk.  

That feral expression floated above him, and the rare smile was tinged with that familiar hungry anger.  "Too easy," Caldwell muttered, smoothing him with stiff, hot fingers.  "Your need to succor the helpless will be your undoing." 

"You are the least helpless person I know," John muttered back.  He lifted his hips so Caldwell could pull down his pants.  He hadn't bothered to wear underpants because he'd thought they might do more than talk.  "But I'll remember that trick.  Next time I won't be so worried." 

"Don't be an idiot, of course you will."  Caldwell watched him, hardly blinking, as his hands moved down John's chest and stomach, to circle and finally hold, his genitals.  "You always will." 

It was sadly true.  Caldwell probably knew him better than he knew Caldwell.  Like the way Caldwell knew how hot he found the sight of the man standing there between his legs stroking him at the same time he kept himself hard for the task.  Not saying anything, hardly moving, just doing it as if it were some relatively sane thing he did all the time, with his usual professional efficiency. 

Then, John wasn't entirely inefficient, since he'd done a little lubricating before turning up.  You just never knew where a good argument would lead.  So he was mildly pleased when Caldwell noticed it as raised John's legs to rest on his shoulders. 

"Ready for me, are we, Mr Sheppard?  Well, you'll need to be."  And with that he pushed the not-inconsiderable bulk of his prick into John's arse. 

As always, it felt like being rammed up the stern by a Wraith cruiser.  John arched, gasped for breath and pushed one hand into his mouth to stop himself from screaming because there was nothing more certain to get security breaking down the door than the sound of someone screaming.  And while he was chewing on his fist and thinking about cruisers, Caldwell hissed again, with pleasure this time, and angled himself with that amazing precision of his and the pain got swallowed by a whole bunch of feeling good. 

There was nothing for him to do then but rock back and forth, as his body stretched to accommodate Caldwell.  Heat spread through him, he got so hot the air moving over his skin seemed chill and sweat pooled in his eyes, his stomach, and ran like tears down his cheeks.  He let his hand drop back; they both lay limp on either side, over the edge of the desk, and he wondered again whether a person's heart could pound so hard it could just break. 

The combination finally drove him to the sort of orgasm that they used to talk about in high school, the wet-dream-I'm-gonna-die-happy orgasm where you mind and body just implode and your nerve ends fry and for a split second time just.  Stops. 

When it started again, he was in Caldwell's arms with a sock stuck in his mouth.  Happily, it was his own. 

"Next time," Caldwell whispered, the velvet tone a little frayed around the edges, "I'll leave you there for the Wraith.  Any one of them that feeds on you will probably end up finding religion and turning vegetarian." 

"Ha.  Ha.  You're growing a funny thing."  He saved a limp hand.  "Humor, that's it.  Keep practicing, you'll get it." 

 

The two technicians had heard some muffled raised voices and a few sounds like furniture crashing which had eventually faded to a rather worrying silence.  When the door finally opened, Sheppard emerged looking flushed and ruffled, like a man who'd had a bit of beating.  As he passed out into the corridor, the two sergeants froze at the sound of Colonel Caldwell's stern voice. 

"Next time, Sheppard, I expect to see some improvement in your behavior." 

Sheppard grunted as he hobbled down the passageway, tucking something that looked like a sock, black, standard USAF issue, into his pocket.  "Life's full of expectations, sir.  But I'll do my humble best." 

And as Jake Wilson turned back to his work with his shrug, he thought for a moment that he'd heard his dour commander laugh.  It seemed unlikely, though, and Garcia agreed. 

"Sense of humor?  Old Ironsides?  Don't make me laugh.  Hand me the twelve inch micro, will you…"

 


End file.
